Dana's Visitations
by tooma1311
Summary: The times that Dana Scully finds her way to Monica Reyes. Scully & Reyes fic. Slightly AU, takes place in season nine and goes from there. Rated M & obviously no MSR. i got a few more chapters planned and would like to do the samething from Scully's pov. Is anyone enjoying this?Reviews appreciated. -Chapters 3 and 4 now uploaded-
1. Visitation number 1

Disclaimer:

These are not my characters, but Chris Carter's and a bunch of other people's, though these versions kind of are. I am reimagining the events /relationships starting somewhere in season nine, changing some of the plot and/or emotional implications of earlier seasons, keeping most, and definitely changing the character's futures ( even though I did enjoy season 9, 10, and 11, and even the second movie).

I actually have a number of visits/"visitations" (future chapters) planned out in my mind and an idea of the story beyond. I would appreciate reviews.

I am not a native speaker so excuse my errors ( or pm me so I can correct them).

 **Visitation, number 1**

 _7.23 pm, August 4_ _th_ _2001,_

 _Bennett Avenue 67,_

 _Washington, D.C.,_

 _my apartment._

I wonder what she must be thinking: sitting as still and composed when her heart must still be aching; me rattling on about a not so x-file-y case that is not even hers, while a little over a week ago she gave her only son away. To keep him save, yes – but what does that change for a mother missing her son. It is amazing to me that she is here. It's the first time she has come to my new place. And it is simply amazing to me that she hasn't fallen apart on that new couch of mine, or hasn't yet. Instead she focuses on me, my chatter and the case at hand. So I keep on chatting about potential links to satanic ritual abuse, that might or might not have been the reason that John and I have been assigned to your run-of-the-mill bed-wetter serial killer scenario as we have a couple of days ago. Dana keeps her expression neutral, her questions on point and directed albeit a little reserved. She herself must wonder whether or not this is a job worthy of X-files agents, and only maybe, whether we, John and me, are worthy X-files agents. Of course, she would never say something like that. Instead she says: "I'm sure you're really helpful to Agent Frederick and the others, as they have no experience whatsoever in unusual cases, so I've heard." So she has heard.

"Thank you. And yes, it seems that way. Although I doubt that we should be getting every 'unusual' case on our desk. It seems like busy work, or maybe distraction." She agrees with me, nodding, while I have already continued my evaluation of who should be working on this case : "You know we could actually use someone with your experience. And I don't mean the X-files at all, but your medical skills." I would _love_ to work with her. "Most of the symbols have been cut into the flesh and different places within the apparently surgically opened abdominal cavity, and quite frankly we are having problems just figuring them out." "Oh yeah?", she says encouraging me to speak, as I stand up and take both of our empty tea mugs to bring them to the kitchen to refill them or maybe get something else. Wine? "Yes some quite obviously resemble satanic symbols, even the cliché triple-six, and symbols associated with 20th century interpretations of witchcraft, y'know?". She knows. "And some quite obviously don't: a heart,.. a sun,.. lines. At this point in the investigation, it appears random really."

I look up at the kitchen clock and at Scully. Scully, Dana, heart-broken, strong, brave, sitting on my couch turned towards me, as I stand in my kitchen between couch and counter dangling the two empty cups from my hands as I ramble on about body-windings or whatnot. This is absurd. I put the cups down. "You know what?. I think I might actually have a good wine here, and it's getting too late for tea. Don't you think?" Why does she make me so nervous? It's such an innocent offer. "I mean, we could of course have another cup, maybe not green tea but something else, but I feel like opening up a bottle of wine, just to have a glass, y'know? It's a nice Merlot. What about you?" Her expression is unreadable "I'd like that". I breath in again and uncork the dusty bottle. It is a good wine - thank God/Goddess. Thank the Universe, Dana Scully deserves good wine today. Any day, really. I am rummaging through my lower cupboard looking for decent glasses. I pour two glasses of wine, fuller than I should. It's not that I want to get her drunk, but I do think we both deserve to treat ourselves, she does anyways – though I doubt she does very often, or knows how to for that matter. "Anyway the trouble is that the flesh apparently tears in very different ways depending on what …ehm...organ, or texture, it is carved into and the pathologist, Special Agent Surviet, who is doing the autopsy is in fact not very helpful. Of course he has no experience with such things. I mean, who does?". Except for, maybe, Dana Scully, the special Agent. I smile, and start to make may way back over to the couch, carefully, as I do not want to spill any of the wine I have given out so generously.

I extend my hand with the fuller glass to her, meeting her gaze at the same time and am surprised that she smiles back, a tiny smile, a polite smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Thank you", she says as her gaze moves towards the glass and our fingers touch. I find her amazing. Gracious. Graceful. "I could come by, if you want me to". First I am confused. Come by? You are here. At my place. You did come by. And then I understand she means come by the office to help with that not-so-x-fileish not-so-interesting case of mine. Amazing! Gracious. "Oh no!" I wince. "That is not at all, what I meant. I mean … we could use somebody to help us figure out those shapes and symbols. but not you! " Now she looks surprised, offended even. "It's not your case, but John's an mi…" I stop. Her shapely left eyebrow keeps rising. "I mean, you don't have to come by just to help us, a person in your… situation…" Shit, there it is. Small talk is over: it hits her that I am talking about William, might have been thinking, just like her, about him all this time. "I mean, I wouldn't want you to go through any trouble at all" I finish as my voice falls flat. She looks broken, the eye contact is broken, and everything else about her appears that way. Shit, Monica, you think of yourself as sensitive, in tune even, well, well done. Somehow I am still talking: "You must have so much on your mind right now." I know you do. Dana looks up again: "Well to be honest, I wouldn't mind, at all …. especially, in my situation." She sits slightly back and directs her body towards me slightly more. Physically she has been there all along, but verbally she acknowledges the situation – for, maybe, the first time right now. Her posture changes as if with that breath, with this last statement, that tenseness has left her body.

She softens and says "It is good for me to get out and do something at the moment actually, it takes my mind off things, off …him, off William." Both struck by the name, she finishes her thought calmly: "Off of things I cannot change… So, thank you,.. and thank you for the wine", she smiles teary-eyed. I am again amazed and nod. I have to keep her talking. Dana might finally be opening up. To me.

I have seen her a couple of times since that day she came to the decision to give William up for adoption: I have called her about a case, seen her in hallways, elevators, and offices as always, but I have since then made it a point to come by and check in on her, as if she needed me. The last week I have called her every day to "just say hi", mumbling stupidly like most of tonight and this afternoon. And I have even visited her in her apartment. My visits there were surprising to me. Unfathomable really. Just as with my phone calls, I didn't know what to do, how to be a friend. To Dana Scully, my colleague. A woman I admire greatly, but do not know at all. Not much at least. I have heard the term "Ice Queen" before, but have never thought too much about it - actually, I have... But I have never considered it a very useful evaluation, that might give me any insight in how to be her friend, or colleague, or whatever. I know she appears distant, and obviously royally so, but in the short time I have known her I was allowed to see a full range of her emotions, beginning obviously with anger, or impatience – directed in part towards me, and then desperation, grief, but also eventually some joy when William was born and Mulder with us and alive. Though mostly she was sad, and brave, and determined, and honestly quite frank and open with me. The days I visited mostly after or before work were sad days, maybe her most desperate. I mostly came in, sat next to her as she handed me coffee, tea, or water, and she cried, wordlessly with closed eyes. Then we exchanged a few words and after the second day already I would leave with the word's "I'll call you later" and she would nod. Sometimes I would say, "You should come by for lunch, if you feel like going out" or "Come by my place later tonight (if you don't)"

And nine days later, here she is, at my place, on a Friday evening, sitting on my couch. She is so small. And she is talking, finally talking for real: "I haven't really felt like going out, other than for work. Mostly I have been sinking into that feeling." She looks up at me to verify. Her eyes are huge, and pupils exceptionally bright blue. Or maybe exceptionally framed by red. "As you know". she looks down again, setting down her barely touched glass of wine on my coffee table, as my eyes follow every movement. "Looking at that crib in my place, it is hard to… move on…or not to dwell on it. To look forward and think about the happy,… the normal,… the safe life my son will be leading, if there is always the reminder that this life will be without me. And selfishly, I…could cry everyday… for the rest of it that mine will be without him, my son…" Her voice breaks a little. And I notice that she has started to cry. Her eyes are as open and big as before and just as blue. But tears have started to quietly run down her cheeks, dropping from her cheek unto the cuffs of her blazer. I cannot look at her eyes. I look down. She is taking off her blazer, she has certainly noticed the tears wetting it too.

Her hands are so beautiful. Even as they are shaking, they are so purposeful. Just like her. And like her, they are both endearingly small and delicate, but strong. So obviously strong. You just have to admire their movements, their direction. "This is way I am so thankful to you Monica, for your … friendship. I really do appreciate, though I haven't said it yet…" I shake my head. No need. "That you have come to visit me, so that… I am not alone in my apartment, with that damn empty crib in it. For your calls… But mostly that I can be here tonight, and not think about him all the goddamn time. That I can leave that apartment just for a cup of tea,… or a glass of wine" and she smiles through tears. "Of course, Age-..," she looks up. What am I thinking: "…Dana". Her hands are folded in front of her, her knuckles touching, but their grasp on each other is loose. Her fingernails are short and manicured, the perfect fit for her blazer and her blouse, her line of work. Her hands are graceful, and it must cost her _so_ much strength, I think, to keep them calm, to keep them unclutched, just softly resting in each other. I have never admired her more than this moment.

She keeps on talking about William, and all those reminders of him at her place, the rattle with the sound she hates, the ridiculous alien-face onesie Mulder gave her, and everything really; says that she is sure of her decision, rationally, but emotionally it is soo much harder to bear. If it was just about her, she would have kept him. But it's not – and actually, honestly, it has never been, about just her and what she wants. And of course it cannot be, with so much on the line. The entire human race apparently, she chuckles. She says that she has been through a lot – and I believe her. Oh, do I believe her. I can see it in her every gesture, and so strongly in her eyes. But that this might very well be the hardest: Losing Mulder, when she believed him to be dead, was simply devastating, a disillusionment of a special kind, having him go for the sake of safety was not easy and complicated and impractical too. She lost her father, and her sister, apparently because they actually wanted to kill her, mistook her, in fact, and shot. She has been abducted, lost another child – who ? and whose? – that wasn't really hers – what?, and had cancer. Her list simply breaks my heart: there is so much that I did not know and makes me cry. How the hell is she still standing? or sitting here with me. But the hardest thing is this, she says. She tells me that it is true what they say, there is no love like that of a mother to her child. You have _no_ idea what your heart is capable of until you have had a child. You hold him in your arms in some godforsaken place, we both smile, and know it, feel it. I have never had a child, but I can see what she is capable of, I see it with her here, talking to me. I must have seen it when she walks our basement halls. I must have, in fact, seen it on that fateful hill in Montana.

I notice that I have been holding both her hands in mine, apparently for a while. I wonder for how long and why…she lets me. And she tells me, that what other people might not realize is, that it is terrible when a child dies, but that it is another pain altogether to let your child go and know that you won't be by his side. That whatever the world will deal him, or some other unknown world might, that no matter how strong you are, how strong you have learned to be, you will not be there for him or with him. And that quite frankly this might still be… for his best. She cries a little more now. And I let go of her hands and take her into my arms. I almost forget to be thankful that she lets me, because I myself feel so…sad, no that doesn't do. I feel so… something, something grand, that it just happens. I hold her close, while I get lost in her thoughts. She doesn't fight my embrace but falls into it. She is so strong. And we sit like this. Me going through her list, she definitely thinking, about what I do not know, and crying quietly, but less and less. Her hair is just beneath my nose. Can one smell strong? Or is this citrus of some kind.

Her touch softens, the embrace softens, and while I still stroke her hair, the atmosphere changes. Her beautiful and soft hands are on my back, then on my shoulders, then my neck. I am struck. I tremble a little bit. What is happening here? My senses focusing in on her hands. So soft. Touching … me… tenderly. She is still so close that I cannot search her eyes. Her head in the nook between my neck and my should. There is some trace of wetness on my collarbone, but she has definitely stopped crying. My touch changes to, though I feel like an observer more than in control. One hand is still in her hair. My body seems to think that this is right, but my brain has no idea what to do with this situation. I wonder if she knows what she is doing. Or whether this is just part of a long overdue minor emotional break-down. But it does feel good. And while I lean into this new way of touching her, she strokes her cheek, she rubs her skin to my neck and I can feel her breath. She has been holding it, and released it just now. This is so intimate! Dana Scully breathing into my neck. Dana Scully so close. And then she leans back. And I am just as astonished. My eyes dart back and forth between hers. Looking for a sign, any sign really, to tell me what this is about. What her leaning back from me is about and, more importantly what the …. her leaning into me like that is about. And I find none. Instead her eyes close. And her face approaches mine. Her closed eyes, her half-opened perfect lips, that seems so strange now. It must be only a second but feels so much longer. Until our lips touch.

I do not think for some seconds, but feel. Dana's lips. Moving against mine. Then my thinking kicks in, thank goddess, and I stop, and break the kiss. And she must register the bewilderment in my stare. I cannot for the life of me decipher what is in her eyes. But thank the Universe, she speaks: "I just need to feel - something. Monica. Just tonight". There is no thought required to take her face into my hands and kiss her again. Open-mouthed this time and she seems pleased. I suck her in.

She is asking me to make her feel. Dana is asking me to make her feel something tonight. And I want to. I would give her whatever she wants from me a foot massage, all the money and furniture I own. The shirt on my back. Especially that. Whatever she wants really, whatever she asks. And how I do want to make her feel, to make her feel good, or better. How I'd love to make her feel, to feel her. Tongue, body, lips, hands, those hands. But I have to be sure. I cannot, will not fuck this up: "Are you sure?". I ask and lean back again, away from her lips, away from her touch. Her intoxicating smell, her wonderful lips. I need to stand up. She sits for a second and then gets up, swiftly, deliberately. Her soft "Yes, Monica. Please." contrasts with her movements. But her eyes do plead. They do. I am not sure what else I see in them but it might just be the saddest I've seen her. And I need to make her feel something, maybe better, maybe just something for a moment. I kiss her hopefully as determinedly as she rose. I need to show her…what? I need to make her feel. And she feels heavenly when she kisses me back. And the way she leans in. Dana Scully tastes divine, feels amazing. For the record. In case you were wondering.

Her hands stroke my back and all along my torso, my sides. My hands are in her hair, around her neck, caressing her beautiful jaw line. I am not letting go of her face, maybe because I fear the spell might be broken, the magic gone as soon as it appeared. We kiss, and kiss. But instead the newness fades, the tenderness a little bit, the vagueness, and all my hesitation, for sure, when I push her into me she moans into my mouth. I feel where this is going. The direction of my bed, as she takes the first step forward and into me, her tongue still in my mouth, lips against mine, one hand in my hair. And her next step leads me. I feel where this is going as her other hand snakes beneath my waistband, at my sides for now. My rational thinking stops. Dana all over me and around me. Dana in my pants. We are undressing. I am tearing of her what I can and she is mostly feeling me up, her hands on my bare skin. I want to get her undressed but she is definitely directing us. She is more dominant than I would have figured – and more sensual. And does not taste like wine at all. My bare knees – where have my pants gone – hit the mattress and we fall.

I am capable of very little thought, but one is to place her on my bed squarely right in the center and take what she is offering, actually to devour her whole, starting with her mouth, the skin of her neck and then go south. We are skin against skin, hands reaching, fingers touching, lightly and then softly tearing, teasing. The wetness of her mouth, the softness of her tongue. her silkiness, her slickness of her heat and everywhere skin and flesh and a body, I both need to see and touch. And she is moaning quietly, breathy moans, but Dana's voice, in pleasure and because of my touch. It is almost too much. I am just touching her, but everything in me is friggin' high. High on Dana, and her body and her pleasure, and her moans, and eventually she soars as I cling to the image she leaves me with her face formed by pleasure, her hands gripping, her eyes closed shut, her beautiful pillowy lips open, some teeth glinting through, a deep moan, and waves through all her muscles. She is beautiful. And this is fucking amazing. I cannot get enough, though I know I have to stop. That she was asking me to make her feel, but that is all. And she clings to me with her beautiful hands, but less strength, damp skin against damp skin. I stroke her face, her hair.

Her eyes open and then just as suddenly she is on top of me. A second of a pause. Light from my kitchen showers her upper body, muscles, soft breast, collar bone, and she touches me. And I am hot as hell, for her, and wet. Soo wet for her. Her hands are heaven, actually. She is on me around me. I am wet and I am open. She is in me! It is my time for pleasure, pure as it could be. Blindingly. And it builds. And builds. Her mouth on mine. Tongues. I have not come down at all. From this high that is her. It really doesn't take much. I am shrieking. Into her ear – quietly, and gyrating freely. Against her hand.

I come down to lazy circles on my shoulder. This was crazy, crazy good. It must have been when there is so little thought involved. Dana is stroking me. Her forehead rests against my cheeks. She has let herself fall on me. Half on top, half next to me. And I carefully adjust. Her hands move to my back. I search for mine. One is pinned beneath her. Upper thigh. Good. The other is on her neck, clutching really. I move it to her hair. and close my eyes. Fingertips and circles attend me to sleep.

I wake. Maybe it is because of some sound outside. Or maybe it is because Dana is getting up, leaving the bed. When I open my eyes she has put on her panties already. For the mess we made she found them rather quickly. I wonder if she been eyeing them for some time while in my arms. She gathers her other items of clothing. The bra next to the bedside table, the blouse at the doorframe, the pantyhose, the pants, all in a bundle in her arms as she walks into the bathroom. She is getting dressed, in the bathroom, while I am still laying leisurely, sleepily, naked in my bed thinking of her. My arms still sprawled out next to me where Dana used to lie.

She is getting dressed and leaving. And I should have expected that. But still I don't know how I feel. I take my arm back, and place it underneath the the light covers. I listen to the sound of the water running, her footsteps. While she moves. I am searching for some stirring of feeling. One with a name preferably. But really all I can do is bath in that beautiful night. It was just one night, we both knew that, she said so herself. I hear the flush of the toilet, footsteps water running, the pause, and stare at the door. A really beautiful night. I hear her footsteps and avert my eyes. I wouldn't want her to see me stare at that door, or I panic, I don't know.

She walks into the room. I look over at her, slowly, carefully. As I assumed, she is fully dressed. No half-naked early-morning-Dana for me. Sleepy, cute and in only her bra. She looks at me, notices that I am awake. I look at her. Just one night. She seems to agree; she smiles, nods politely, knowingly. One night and then she'll leave. No "one morning" was discussed, but then again, we didn't talk much. I nod – hopefully in a similarly amicable fashion – and close my eyes. I sink back into my mattress and listen to her footsteps. When she closes the door, she is still here. Dana's smell in my sheets. While she is dressed and in the streets, on her way home, scenes from last night play in my mind. First her smell, then her white skin, open and shutting eyes, her hands, her smile, her moan, her moan (!), her touch, her kiss, her sigh, her taste. Just one night, but a hauntingly beautiful night. Tangerines are so strong, and soft. I fall asleep again.


	2. Visitation number 2

**Visitation number 2**

 _8.55 pm, August 18_ _th_ _2001,_

 _Bennett Avenue 67,_

 _Washington, D.C.,_

 _my apartment._

It has been two weeks since Dana's visitation. I am sitting on my still very new couch, the first glass of scotch in my hand, low New jazz from Nu' Orlins playing in the background, when I realize that. It's Friday and it has been two weeks since Dana's visit, and four days since we caught the symbol-carver.

It turns out it wasn't an X-file after all, surprise, but a rather interesting non-mother-hating serial-killer case. A former medical student who failing his internship due to a malpractice that resulted in death went down the wrong path and got involved in some death-is-life cult born out of a smaller Christian college nearby. The rest of the cult-followers, obviously less educated, and unscrupulous, but most of all scalpel-less, were split into two groups, one encouraging and helping the killer, carving, nonsensical messages, meant for some higher power, no god, mind you, but a god-devil-incarnation, while the other half, not knowing about the killer and carver among them, worshipped each new victim, taking them as a sign, that finally death-and-life aligned in some cosmic way, are becoming one in a pre-apocalyptic time, or something like that, as they drew blood and salt symbols on whatever surface the victim happened to appear, making it impossible for us to figure out post-mortem, and post-worship signs on victims and scenes. I need to try to remember what being in college felt like and what being in the academy, potentially failing, though I wasn't, would have meant to a young me. Or maybe not. I have to figure out what it all means, obviously. I wonder if the Scotch will help and take a sip.

Naturally, the crime scene investigation teams were the real heroes here, coming up with differentiations that neither John nor me could see. And naturally, Agent Scully, medical doctor by training and Catholic by upbringing but not nighttime behavior, as I just found out, was of great assistance in more ways than one.

Soon after her first and so far only visit to my place, she showed up at J. Edgar Hoover's to meet me and Agent Doggett. I recognized her before I saw her. I saw her hand on the door handle, streaks of read swing in, but made no effort to meet her eyes. Since that morning's polite good-bye smile I had been wondering what it would be like to finally run into her. Surely it would be awkward, it must be. We couldn't find a single word to say to each other since we have fallen into bed together. I felt terrible, having neither called nor shown up at her place. Actually, the morning that she came by I saw a missed call from her, on my phone, ignored it and went to work, only to see her there a couple hours later. I didn't mean to ignore her, to not call her for two days, to have things change between us… But really what would I say? "Hey how are you doing? Are you still heart-broken. And, by the way, are you still thinking about me, like I do about you. Naked and beneath me? Or if you want to on top." Not really an option now is it. But honestly in my frame of mind surely the best I would have come up with. Really she is boiling just beneath my surface.

I would have loved to call her up, to hear her voice, I noticed when I heard her speak: "Morning Agents". "Agent Scully! What a surprise… to what do we owe your visit", says Doggett, he has been walking on eggshells around her just like me ever since William has been gone.

"Actually, Agent Reyes here, mentioned the other day that you would appreciate my help on the not-an-X-files case you're working on". Doggett's face snaps in my direction, he must be wondering why the hell I would ask a mother who hast lost her child, and partner/lover/whatever-that-is-between-them, to come and help us with something that we wouldn't necessarily have to be involved in anyways. Not-an-X-File anyhow. And I can't blame him. I wonder, too. Actually, I know, just want to see her, maybe, selfishly. To get her out too. "Do you want me to take a look at the body, the carving?" she asks. And my dear John is smarter than me not rambling on about how we didn't need her to do that, in "her situation". No rambling whatsoever, just a polite: "Agent Scully, your expertise would be much appreciated indeed" and a "Should we head to the morgue right away? I'm sure you're busy." Gotcha. The three of us head over to where the latest bodies are held, without me having spoken a single word to her. The walk is longer than it needs to be. For reasons of temperature or the general comfort of people the morgue is located in the basement as well though not of this wing but the Eastern Annex, so we have to take the elevator up, walk though some halls on the first floor or the second and take the elevator or stairs down to the morgue. This promises to be a quiet and quite uncomfortable walk. She is next to me but I can only see her profile. In the elevator we turn the same way, we stand next to each other we both reach for the button and hesitate. She pushes it and I withdraw. I feel like thirteen, like I am standing next to my favorite teacher, who just happens to be the prettiest girl in school and the head cheerleader. This has to stop. I clear my throat. This emphasizes the silence.

Apparently, I have nothing to say. "How have you been? Still heart-broken, surely, but do you think about me?" This is still not an option. As we leave the elevator, me nearly bumping into her out of sheer nervousness, thankfully, my dear dear John finally starts to speak: "You know it is so nice that you came over. But I'm not sure this is worth any of our time. I have no idea why they assigned us as advisor's for this case. If you ask me, it is not an X-file at all… But it appears to be some kind of... busy work… ". "Or maybe distraction," she cuts in. I smile and have a warm feeling rush over me. No need to be nervous here, Monica, the three of us, we are all on the same side. John and me are both nodding, though he has no idea why exactly I do.

In the morgue we are back to the work-place routine, John takes a call, I ask the mortician to bring out the last three victims and Scully changes into a light blue medical gown, and sheer latex gloves. I have never noticed how the medical gown brings out the blue of her eyes and I am not sure one should. When have I seen her wear scrubs, and what the "f" am I thinking. Once she has fastened the lab coat behind her back she turns to me. "These are the last two victims". She meets my eyes, she seems surprised that I am talking. And I can't blame her. I am just surprised that my voice doesn't waver. C'mon Monica. "The first is female, her name is Eliza Schneider, 27, student, found on August 5th, 7.00 am on the basketball court adjacent to the Birch Residence Hall of Wesley Theological Seminary, Washington D.C. The second was found just this morning. At 7.45 am near a body of water in Glover-Archbold Park. Dr. Ken Arinoff, M.D., 37. The body appears not to have suffered changes due to exposure to water." "Thank you, Monica". I think about my name on her lips, as she moves purposefully over to me, stretches her arm out toward me, her hand reaching. And she takes: the files. "But I think I'd like to have a look at the autopsy findings myself". I am thankful that she does, as her reading them gives me time to compose myself. She is a colleague and a friend. I am a grown woman and not a teenage girl with a crush. I am a friggin Special Agent, Special Agent Monica Reyes. Discussing a case with a fellow agent, who I have asked over.

Agent Doggett comes over and lets us know that he would like to join Agent Frederick leading the investigation as he interviews potential witnesses and the first person on the scene. He cannot shake the feeling that this "messy butchery" that the bodies endured will not lead us anywhere. He considers police basics, talking to people, to be "our best shot". Thank you Agent Scully for coming, I guess. But she doesn't seem disturbed by his evaluation at all. But smiles, again politely as he leaves.

The doors to the morgue close with a squeak. "I haven't seen or heard from you in a while," she keeps her head still bowed her hands busy aligning dangerous instruments. "Oh," is the only answer I can give her "really?". She looks up quickly, shortly – in confusion. "I guess I must have missed your calls", she says, quietly. "Oh you know…, I have been busy with the case", I lie. I'm sorry, Dana. I didn't know, what to say. I still don't. She holds the gaze for more than a couple of moments and nods. Then looks down again. "Oh but than I'm glad I am here. Aren't you?" She sees right through my bullshit. No answer required. But I am.

She starts to work right away; strips them of their protective sheets, inspecting the bodies, taking a look at the report, walking around the body, looking at the report, looking at a body, looking at a report. The reports are unusually thick as they include 3 to 4 pages or so of transcribed symbols each, and pictures thereof. I figure she is checking, for mistakes, and eventually for the transcription. I just look at her. She is soo in her element. It is beautiful to watch really, except for the brutal fact of the mutilated bodies. While I notice all her movements, the space her body inhabits, she does not appear to be aware of me. No raised eyebrow no word in my direction. Either the ball is in my court or she is simply so focused on work that accusing me doesn't come to mind right now. Maybe nothing but the work does. I can see how this, how working might be good for her – just to get out of her mind. And I am happy to see her, watch her even. My fascination with her hand has not vanished since that night, but now I also seem to stare at her soft cheek, her sharp profile, and her butt, whenever she bends over this and then that silver stretcher. Magnifying glass attached to her hand as she leans down to the body, she only has to bend slightly, because she is just so small. I do get a good view anyways.

"Interesting". I walk over in big strides until I am right next to her. I lean on in and over the body with her. I've seen this all before, no clue what it means. "Can you hand me the report again, Monica". Here to serve. "There you go," I hand it to her. She is checking out the transcription as I assumed. I am left with a view of her back. Somehow I haven't really looked at it before. I have a memory of touching her naked shoulder blades and feeling its form, cupping one, but really that is it. Missed chances... What I really want to do is run my hands up and down her spine. Or maybe just one tenderly until I reach the back of her neck, stroke it gently, and then tangle my hand in her hair. I wish her hair was open now, but she put it in a ponytail just before putting on the gloves. "Hm". And maybe after that I would run both of my hands down her back, less tenderly, feeling her skin, her bones and her muscles, and then I would grab her tiny waist… "hm"… and push her into me…"aha".. push her closely to me...

"Hm" she comments even louder, breaking me out of the… let's say…observer stance. "You have determined the murder weapon to be a surgical scalpel. And I must say I agree." No way can I keep fantasizing when she tries to have a conversation. "Yes," I say "Dr. Surviet has noticed the difference in fringe, and concluded differences in force, angle or possibly time of infliction". She is going somewhere with this: "yes, but?". "No, but. That might all be true, however, I think it's two weapons. Based on all these differences in tear. But also just the distribution of signs. You see, the satanic symbols can all be found on the outer epidermis, the eyelid, the skin around the chest cavity and the flesh of the heart, the lines and witchcrafty signs, or whatever you called those, are on the intestines, liver and spleen, softer tissue. The later cuts were made with a less precise knife of a bigger diameter. I'm guessing something similar to a carpenter's knife or a razor blade. While angle and time could contribute to the observed differences, I come to the conclusion that the major cause is the difference in blade and selected tissue. It was was an amateur doing the later hieroglyphs". Great! She is so smart. "You are right. So maybe we should stop focusing on medical personnel". I smile at her, visibly excited. "Oh no I wouldn't. Since the inner injuries must obviously have been performed after the outer ones, your killer most certainly is the former, a person who knows how to use a surgical scalpel and do Y-incisions, for example, while the person is still alive I would add, sending the victims into a fatal traumatic shock," she points to the report. "Or in other words. He who cut first killed her", I add. "Yep" is her answer and she is already peeling her hands out of the gloves.

This might be the break we needed. Or not. But it sure is a very clever conclusion. "Great, Agent Scully. Thank you. That took you what, five minutes?" I compliment her. She really is very smart. She actually looks up at the clock above the door as she takes off those scrubs. "More like fifteen". Ok. I guess time flies when you fantasize. Needless to say, I made sure to keep up with my check-in calls after her visit, though they have turned into case-update calls: One question about her, one about me, then case talk.

It has been two long weeks. Two long weeks, of nervous check-in calls, and hallway encounter, one awkward but enticing autopsy and one interesting elevator meeting. The other day John and me had to pick something up at Quantico, where she teaches. When I entered the building my first thought was her. It was like I was more aware of the periphery of my vision looking for her. We went to a lab where some evidence was tested, grabbed the torn liver and headed out. No sign of the opiate residue, that is common to this sect's ritual (animal) sacrifice, but you gotta keep the body parts together. Dana is teaching here somewhere, surely. Or she is in her office. Or a teaching lab just like this. As John and me came with two different cars, me from a potential witness, who saw nothing, he from the crime scene, I has the opportunity to send him off: " We'll meet in the office okay, just getta say "Hello" to Dana, .. ah, Agent Scully… Dana." It really would be impolite not to say "Hi". He paused for only second: "Sure,…I'll meet you later".

There the nervousness is again. Why? I am just going to go down to her office and knock and say "Hi". That's definitely normal colleague behavior. Or if she's teaching I'll just stay a while, maybe watch her for a while, or the rest of the lesson. Normal.

Suddenly the door opens and in comes Dana, She Is taking off a white lab coat. "Oh. Hi Monica. what are you doing here." Well.. coming to see you?" "I was just picking something up for a case…" She looks down. She is still mad at me for how the night has affected our friendship. Or rather my behavior. Not mad, she really looks sad. " And now I was just on the way down to your office. To say "hello". But here you are.". She is not buying it, but it's true. "I'm glad I ran into you". I am making it worse. "Oh, jah?". And then she just breathes, as if she is giving up. Surely nothing I can say will change that, so I take her hand. I stroke my thumb over the back of her hand immediately. She breathes in a totally different way. She is relieved, hopeful. So am I. So I can give her a real smile. And she returns it and searches my eyes. When the door opens it's her floor, her office. Now I have done what I came for and we are on okay place, there is no reason to follow her. Our arms stretch playfully as she exits the elevator, hands still clasped. "Hi…," she says and returns the smile. I smiled like a school girl "bye", and watched her walk away.

I take a sip from my scotch, remembering the look on her face. It has been two days since we met in the elevator and two weeks since that beautiful just-one-night night, that I still think about every now and then, constantly. I have been playing the scenes like a film, though it is fragmented, a multi-sensory 16 mm film broken and stitched. In slow motion: her smile, hands touching, the kiss, her voice…Needless to say the movie runs in loop. I look at the kitchen clock it's nine thirty something, and I've been sitting here thinking about her for what , one hour? I guess time flies when you fantasize. I take another sip of my drink. It is almost empty, while I get up to put on different music, I hear a knock. Someone is at the door. I walk over and peep through. It's her. Dana. I open the door. "Hi". "Hi". I stare at her. I stand frozen in the doorway. I don't know what she wants.

"Can I come in?". She is still just standing there. I am still standing.

I search her eyes for just a second, as she does mine. Her question still hangs heavy between us. She doesn't need help. There is no emergency. She is not here for X-files talk. She is not here to say "Hi". It's something else she wants at it is in her eyes. I grab her by the arm and almost, kind of, pull her in. I close the door behind her. She looks shocked but I think she is not entirely unhappy with my reaction. We all but jump each other: lips meeting, her in my arms, tongues touching. It's pure passion.

She is clutching my shoulders and back in a way that lets me know that it is something primal she is looking for. Of course it is sex. But it is something more. I cannot figure it out. I cannot figure her out. But she is so endearing. I kiss her. Hard. Her body is so strong and powerful, but also so small in my arms. I cradle it in them. I all but engulf her. I push her even more into me. I find such a strange passion in me. A passion that is just for her and that I have never known before. My mouth is wide open, my tongue forceful and deep. I hope she likes it because I wouldn't know how to dial it down if I tried to. Her hands find her way into my hair. She doesn't want to break the kiss. We breathe only shortly and meet again. She moans. Our bodies are touching all over. Her hand moves up on my scalp, going up and down with how we move. She puts her nails down and scratches me just lightly. I moan. And in the same movement, I pin her against the now closed door. She is surprised. I push my hips against her middle and she whimpers. I repeat this and she moans. I am on fire. Or drugs. Or something. Her. She wraps one leg around me, either to incite me to move against her again or to hold me closer - I cannot know which, I oblige. I wouldn't let go for the life of me

Her hands have left my head, and I am only able to understand what she is doing when my shirt and her hands are below my chin. We break so she can get it off of me. She is dressed in a blouse and tight pencil skirt, as I now stand in front of her in leather pants and black bra, bare feet to her high heels. I see her heaving breaths and catch her staring at my chest. At first she looks unabashedly, the wildness still in her eyes, but once she notices me watching, her expression changes. She looks almost shy meeting my eyes. It puzzles me. Holding the eye contact she reaches for my breast and cups me. This is so sexy. Her other hand brings my face down to meet her again. As we kiss, Dana kneads first one breast firmly, then moves to unfasten my bra, than kneads both. I am in heaven. One leg finds its way around mine. As I half lean her half hold her against the door so we come to even height. My hips keep moving against her instinctively. Her breathing let's me know she likes this. Then she breaks the kiss. For one word only "bedroom". I nod "yes".

For a second it's funny walking as all muscles just a moment ago had all been so tense, so intent on keeping each other close, that they feel loose now. She guides me by the hand and I feel a little wobbly on my feet. This might be anticipation. She leads me to the bedroom and I can see us from above from a disembodied point of view. Her hands guide me through the door as we stop before the bed. I swing her around so that she stands in front of it facing me, skirt out of place blouse open, lips red maybe swollen or lipstick smeared, hair tousled. She is gorgeous. And I know what I must look like: leather pants on, but bare-chested, breathing heavily, eyes aflame, I've been told, almost black. I must look like wild animal about to jump her. And honestly its not so far from what I am feeling.

I wonder if my passion scares her. She holds the eye contact she licks her lips. She must like it because she not only sits down on the mattress but slowly scoots inwards towards the middle of the mattress, holding my glance, waiting for me. for my attack. But instead I prowl, following her onto the bed, crawling on my hands and leather-clad knees, always right above her always looking into her eyes. And I am doing it slow. Until she is lying on the mattress with me above her. We both breath heavily. It is as if I'm caging in my passion, reveling in it. I could let go, and totally lose control, but instead I help her out of her blouse, slowly, as I almost sit on her hips. Uncuffing it. hand by hand, side after side. She is so gorgeous and from the looks of it so turned on. But her eyes are wide now as if she has become scared after all. Her breathing is heavy, audible, and I try to remain as calm as I can as I unzip her pencil skirt and pull it down her legs leaning on my arms. Scully, Dana Scully in lacey underwear laying beneath me. It will soon boil over, whatever animal we made will break free. I have removed her shoes and panty hose. Then I softly touch the sides of her breast feeling the lace and then softly bite into the upper part of her breast that is spilling out of that beautiful bra. She shudders as I soothe her skin with open kisses and my tongue. I let my hands glide down her sides to the top of her panties link my fingers through them and swiftly pull them down. I slowly lower myself so we our whole bodies are touching, skin to skin, skin to lace and, and leather to skin. We both moan and kiss and moans as I gyrate against her middle. She feels hot. And I am pretty sure this is doing it for her. But I need to feel more skin. We lose her bra and both deliberately enjoy the first contact of my naked breast against hers. As I am lowering myself into her slightly. I find a good angle, and she finds the right rhythm. Her eyes are often closed, her breath speeds up. I might be not-so-dry-humping her into orgasm. But I need more.

Before she starts on a path she cannot be stopped from, I stop my movements and hold her still. I change my angle, her eyes open. They close when I feel her wetness on my fingers. And I whimper. She is so wet. Dana is so wet for me. And deliciously hot. The passion overtakes me and I am in her before I can think twice. Shortly exploring than pumping. Slowly. She becomes vocal. With my hands between us, my hips moving, and me leaning on my one elbow, head hanging almost into her chest, I can give her exactly what she needs. I begin a rhythm, feel the pressure of her leg between mine, my strokes speed up. She becomes louder. No breathier. And she is becoming immobile, one hand clutching the sheets, her back arching. First her mouth is opening and closing and opening, then her breath comes rhythmically, hitched. I am all but fucking Dana Scully and It feels like I have never seen anything more beautiful, done anything more profound. This is more than compensation to bear the strain in my arms. And I am close as well, coming down hard on her leg Then her face changes, muscles contorted, her whole body tenses, her back leaves the mattress completely, her mouth opens wide but slowly, as she comes, with a breathy long "ah", I keep moving in her, ride her waves, even a moment after she falls limp back onto the bed, then slowly ease down.

I feel totally shattered, yet I am still so hungry. For my wet and desperate release. She is limp, a muscle mush, So much so that she doesn't remove the strand of hair that has fallen completely over her face, so I do. She is sweaty. This is so great. I lean against her, kiss her shoulder, stroke her chin. She makes content sounds. She hasn't opened her eyes since her orgasm. I fear she might be falling asleep. That would be beautiful, but I have a fire burning between my legs. My hand is in her hair, damp beautiful, soft hair. she opens her eyes and smiles. A real world almost open Dana-Scully-smile. I am floored. We kiss but without focus sloppily. She is still on her way back to her body. But her hand still finds her way to my middle. I stop it , hold her wrist.

While she looks surprised I turn her over. I need to take this chance, explore her back. I stroke and kiss her back, and every once in a while move against her with my crotch. She has turned her head sideways watching me. I tenderly stroke up and down her spine. I fell her shoulder blades. I kiss a place between them. I grab her waist. I kiss her neck. I smell her hair. I grab her shoulders. I thrust against her round backside, more and more . I feel a little bit like using her, finding my pleasure against her but I cant stop. Her eyelids are half ways down. her pupils. I need not feel bad, she enjoys this. I feel relieved. I slowly build a rhythm against her perfect butt. I moan. She watches me. I move my hand over hers, which is laying by her side. My weight is on us both. And then she pushes back. And I immediately moan again. I am so close. She watches. I move, we both move. For only very few moments and I come. I ride my orgasm against her leaning on my hurting arms... On her leg, her ass… I come! hard and long. Quietly. whimpering, shuddering. and let myself drop on her back slowly.

When I catch my breath I'm in her arms. But I am not done with her. No missed chances. I start moving down her body, and kiss her flat stomach. I can see her muscles and feel the softest skin. I can smell her. I am not done with her. She Is surprised. I kiss, lick and bite going south. The animal is still lose. Or maybe I think the longer we sleep with each other the longer she'll be here. And there is a simple logic to it. But in the morning she is gone.


	3. Visitations number 3, 4 and a half

**Visitation number 3, 4 and a half.**

 _2 pm, August 14th 2001,_

 _Bennett Avenue 67,_

 _Washington, D.C.,_

 _my apartment._

"We'll be there in 45 minutes "- says John's text. I have to get up and get ready. But the bed is so comfortable.

Dana and John are coming over to discuss a case and their recent findings. I had been staking out in front of the suspect's house last night and got to sleep in because of that. My bed is a comfortable warm haven from murderers, uncomfortable car seats and Scully and Doggett at my place. I guess it makes sense that they come over. It means I can stay in bed longer. It's actually quite nice of them. But I am a little bit nervous, apprehensive about what it will be like to have her here again, to have her here in a professional setting. How to not kiss her and push her against the door or onto my bed, but instead talk autopsy reports as if nothing has changed, to see her walk through my apartment, with which she has become so intimately familiar, and have Agent Doggett be a witness to it. But it does makes sense and I really needed the sleep. Car seats suck. And sometimes while I lay in my bed I feel like she is still there with me. Or might be just a hand's reach away. But of course she is always gone.

It is as if the room has taken on a new meaning, as if Dana has taken over my space, since we have been meeting like this – my bed, the door, the couch, the bathroom door, I stare at while she gets dressed. I really really have to get dressed: while I wouldn't mind greeting Dana like this, in nothing but a black sleeping gown, Doggett would be entirely confused and maybe get the wrong idea. Or right idea. I slept with Agent Scully. I leave the bed and enter the bathroom. A quick shower. I imagine her hands touching me as I stand in the hot water and lather. I always do now. I have to remind myself that this was supposed to be quick. I love her hands. Her touch. I'd love to have her here in my shower too.

I put on some make up - only mascara and some foundation, and stand in front of my closet. Dana always looks so professional. Or Agent Scully does. Dana looks wonderful in lace underwear or nothing and I'd love to see her in sleep wear, or a bathrobe, or anything really. What to wear? Causal professional. Maybe leather. It is strange how I now care. Kind of. I take out brown slacks a bright red t-shirt and a blazer to make it more work appropriate. A small leather bracelet. I need socks. Shoes would be ridiculous, wouldn't it. Wearing shoes at my own home. I brush my hair and brush my teeth, and… am ten minutes early. Enough time to make a coffee and put on perfume. In the kitchen I notice stuff lying around: an old tea mug, a blanket, a book, a magazine, a hair pin. I tidy up. Wouldn't want to appear too messy even though both Dana and John have seen my place in other, less organized situations. I run to my bathroom to put on perfume as I hear the doorbell ring. I buzz them in and put out some glasses. In case they want water or something. When I am done, they knock at my door. I am ready to face them, I think.

"Hi, Monica," John walks in first, but my eyes are already on the person following him. Dana's eyes are turned down than meet my gaze. I smile: "Come in." She looks gorgeous: grey button-down shirt dark blue tight pantsuit, lipstick and blush. I turn around and offer them some water. Doggett says "Yes, thanks Monica" and Dana "Thank you". I notice her watching, scanning me and look over at her. I see her bending over. She is taking off her shoes. She is so sweet. Doggett looks confused as hell. I hold the water bottle and stare at her with a smile. Doggett says: "We won't stay long". He blushes. She is so cute. I need to do something. I appreciate her taking off her shoes. I need to think about what this implies, but I don't have time. I bring over the water and glasses. "Make yourselves comfortable…" She blushes even more "What gifts are you bearing? Did we get the evidence?" I am trying to make her smile or engage her in a conversation. We all settle in on the couch. Doggett drinks his water dutifully and I realize I shouldn't have worried about Dana feeling awkward at all. She has regained her pre-taking-her-shoes-off composure and is professional, no non-sense, sexy-as-hell Special Agent Dana Scully, but with only pantyhose-clad tiny feet.

As I had assumed nothing substantial has really developed in regard to the case. All of us seem pretty sure who the killer is, the guy whose house I parked in front of almost all of last night, X-files-style ignoring the fact that he seems to have been at three, not two, but three, places at the same time. Doggett believes, because it seems like the most logical explanation despite it being impossible. A-to-B-to-C, or something. Dana because of the evidence of the autopsy - despite there being no bullet-proof, court-proof evidence, like DNA or fingerprints, other signs on the body, of victim and killer, indicate that it's most likely him. And there is some kind of bio-slime that Agent Mulder, as Dana tells us, believes to be some kind of ectoplasm found on the threshold between dimensions or at the site of so called "walk-ins", angel-meetings. And it is this goo with which they have come to my place today, or rather the results of some lab tests that Agent Scully had them do on it. I know the killer is the killer, because I can feel it. The way he dodged questions, the way he looked at us, he held my gaze, when we questioned him. His aura really. But obviously there is also no hard evidence in that.

I think we are a good team, in our own way. I am sure Dana misses Mulder, the way she says his name. the way she is able to summarize his theories with the utmost respect for him even though she might not believe in every part of it, and seems to carefully avoid the word "goo" or "slime". But I do wonder, if she thinks this too. If she sits here with John an me, and thinks, that we are good together. Professionally speaking of course.

What I do see is her looking around the apartment. Actually towards my bed. Now and then. The door is open. She is the image of professionalism and expertise, naming chemical compounds and their natural occurrences, and using words that only medical students with talented tongues are able to produce at that speed. But every now and then she looks towards my bedroom. Of course I have left the door to my untidy bedroom open, but you Dana, took off your shoes. I left it open, when I put on the perfume actually, which I hope you noticed. I have no idea what your are thinking, when you look towards my bed, but I wish I did. Do you feel uncomfortable, do you feel reminded? Can you smell the other night in my new sheets, just like me?

I like her here. I like them both here and I like us three as a team. "It's settled. " As if we took a vote, as if we need to. "We have no … evidence, that will hold, but we'll keep an eye on him," says Doggett. Nodding. "And I will take the next shift in the car. Kersh doesn't have to know," Dana adds. "Eventually we will find something leading us to him. We must," I say. Doggett is packing his things, arranging the file: "I'll talk to the witness again. Somebody must have seen something". I like this, but now they have to leave. Dana is getting up, though more hesitantly: "I'll just drop the reports off before my shift today and ask them to run a comparison to the results of the case from 96." I nod. If she has to leave, she has to leave. Dana is putting on her shoes, as Doggett is almost out the door. I hold it for both of them. We say our goodbyes and then they are gone. Not a second glance at me. But I'm sure I've seen her take an eyeful of my bed again. I wonder if John did.

As I take their glasses and carry them to the sink, I can finally start analyzing this very peculiar behavior: her taking off her shoes, her looking into my bedroom. The optimist in me says there is something subconscious in her that told her she might like to be there too. In my bed with me. I pour myself another glass. Maybe, hopefully, a little bit longer one day. Or maybe this is not the optimist, but the dreamer. I am glad I do not harbor a pessimist. There's a knock. I walk over to the door, look through the peephole.

It's Dana. I let her in. Auto-pilot. The dreamer says she is here for the bed. The realist says she has forgotten the lab report. She looks at me and closes the door behind her: "I told Doggett I'll take my own car, that I have to pick something up, and I'll meet him in the office." I nod. I slowly move towards my couch. What does she have to pick up?. She comes towards me. Her briefcase is dropped on the table. "I don't have long". She is only inches from me, I recognize her look. Her body is touching mine. There is only a little bit of doubt in her eyes, there must be shock in mine. Her hands touch my shoulder. Her hands are in my hair. I am pulled into a searing kiss. This woman will kill me – with excitement.

Kissing her feels as heavenly as I remembered. Her hands are on my shoulder. She breaks the kiss. And looks at me. Her glance moves back and forth from one eye to the other, than she smiles, and slowly, sexily and pushes me onto the couch. I less than gracefully yelp, and am suddenly sitting. She follows swiftly, both legs beside me on either side she sits on my lap, her upper body touching mine and the weight of her tiny body delicious on my crotch. Is this a dream? She looks into my eyes again. Deeply this time. Her hands are in my hair and she touches me so sweetly, so tenderly, almost playfully running them though my hair playing with the tips of it. And then she kisses me again.

Everything feels wonderful. First I am hardly following just flooded by her, the weight of the experience, until finally all the sensations are so much that I register them one by one, and start kissing und touching her. Her back, the side of her face, her shoulder. She kisses me ferociously. When I reach her upper thigh. She moves upwards. She leaves my lap. she stops my hand, but she is still kissing me. Her hands take mine away. "I don't have long," is all she says and her lips are on mine again.

Paradoxically she now kisses me more patiently than before, slowly, sweetly. Open -mouthed kisses, and a lot of tongue. Her hands keep moving. It's heaven. It's painfully delicious. But I am doing my best to not touch her, to not push her into the couch by her shoulders and crawl on top of her. But every now and again she pushes her weight down on me also incredibly slowly and rises again. I can feel her heat and the pressure. I am again rendered very basic by my need for her. I want her so badly. This is heaven. This is torture, the sweetest kind. As she pushes down again, I moan. And whisper her name, "Mhh, Dana". As if awoken from a dream she stops, and then she is getting up.

I am just sitting, just as dumbfounded as I was when she came in. She is rearranging her clothing, pulling on her blouse that has risen up. "I have to go". She goes through her hair, when she is already at the door. "Okay," is all I can muster. I am well-kissed and slack-jawed. This time when she leaves I do get a last glance over her shoulder and it's a good one.

I stare at the door for a while. This woman! Mhh, Dana. I bite my lip. I only notice that my hips feel like they have been glued to the couch, or rather pushed into it, when I move them. When I move them I notice I am wet. I do not only have the greatest burning between my legs and behind my belly button, and somewhere in the mush of my brain, I am incredibly wet. Soaking. For Dana. Because of her. Because of this incredible impromptu make-out session she instigated. And a little bit because of the way she pushed my body into the couch, I have to admit. The slowness of her movements, the sweetness of her touch. I am already half naked when I notice I have been moving towards the shower. Apparently some part of my brain that is still alive and well has decided I am going to take a shower. And another part of my brain is fairly certain I won't refrain from my thoughts of Dana this time.

 _8.11 pm, August 15th 2001,_

 _Bennett Avenue 67,_

 _Washington, D.C.,_

 _my apartment._

Today is Doggett's night to stake out in front of the suspect's house, as neither Dana nor me could find any evidence of the suspect leaving his house the last two nights, while the victims are literally piling up. The body count is disgusting really. Kersh suggested it's more than one man can produce actually in a couple of nights and he might be right. However, we still believe it's him, the suspect. And there doesn't really need to be signs of him leaving the house if my theory is correct, only signs of some strange portal to other dimensions where versions of him kill victims. And then pile them up. But we have found no such signs, no glowing, no lost time, no dimension-goo, nothing, and his is why Doggett is now camping out.

I have just arrived home and I do not envy John. We have had a really long disturbing day. All those victims, some of them not even identified and all our justification of why we want to continue observing our suspect. Once for AD Skinner, and then again for every other FBI official with a name. I think they might not even care if we do, they just want us Spookies out of the way. And that's fine by me. I am exhausted. Dana must be worse than me. Not only was she part of the advocacy tour for our joint suspect number one, but she looked at the autopsy reports of all victims and some of the bodies themselves. She had such energy today, and such quite determinism. I do wonder when she prepares her lessons. Or maybe she doesn't have to. Maybe she doesn't need to sleep. Maybe she is a superhero after all.

I put on my nightgown, and am walking around with bare feet. I have not eaten all day, really, just some snacks but I am not hungry. Maybe I should prepare something, maybe something that I can keep in my fridge for the rest of the week. So that I won't forget to eat. As I look through my cabinet, it knocks. I will be treated to another kiss at least. It must be Dana. I think I can almost hear it in the knock. Maybe I have learned to identify her by her knock.

I walk over to the door and am already excited. I open it grinning somewhat widely with happy thoughts of times to come. It is her. Of course it is. She hasn't changed from her working clothes and carries her bag. She smiles as she sees my expression. Actually it is just a hopeful glance, corners of the mouth turned upward. Her bag drops to the floor. She scans me, looks down and then up again. I think she might be liking my nighttime attire.

The hopeful look turns into a look of mirth. She bends over and gets rid of her shoes. We both chuckle. Her hair falls in front of her face as she does that. Who knew taking of the shoes could be so erotic. I just watch her and keep smiling.

Then she is upright again and slowly moves towards me holding my gaze. It is so sexy that I don't right away notice her fingers unbuttoning her shirt, tugging it out of her skirt. My smile is now gone. This is so sexy. She takes of her shirt and lets it drop on the arm-rest of the couch. She is wearing a white tank top underneath. almost see-through, and a white cotton bra, potentially see through but definitely thin. I am touching her before I know it, my hands on her ribcage, and then embracing her. Her skin is very warm. It is my time to kiss her and I do. Once fully, on the lips, than her jaw, and finally her very inviting exposed neck. She whimpers in support. Her back towards my bedroom door, I slowly walk us both over to my bedroom one large unsteady step at a time. Then suddenly I am stopped by hand on chest pushing me away from her a little bit. Oh, no! "Couch" is all she says. I am relieved and I oblige. I sit down on the couch the same spot as last time, and patiently wait. She grabs her tank top at the hem and loses it over her head. She is so friggin' sexy. I wait patiently and am rewarded when she sits on my lap again. Not quite as snuggly as last time though, because of her very very tight pencil skirt.

Her bra is see through. I kiss her neck and touch her breast with palms. I then circle one pronounced nipple with my finger. She is delicious. I almost bite into her neck, but just nibble instead and taste her skin it with my tongue. I knead her breast and butt. She rises a little bit. I think she wants my mouth on her breasts and this is exactly where it wants to be. I cover her back-bra clasp with one hand and close my mouth over her nipple right, cover it through the bra. I breath hot breath on it warming the cotton, making her shudder, the other hand around her other breast. She whimpers. then I circle her nipple with my wet tongue, and she immediately pushes her pelvis against mine. Forcefully. Because she likes this so, I repeat this with the other nipple, which earns me another thrust of her hips. When I want to suck, she stops me: she takes my head into her hand and lowers her face to kiss me sweetly, than shakes her head nosh is so beautiful. Her hair falls around my face. She wants me to touch her breast, but not suck. Maybe we are keeping the bra on for a while. I continue my work on each breast a couple of times until she is almost grinding herself against me. Her breathing has changed. I just love how she enjoys this. How she enjoys sleeping with me, obviously. Even if this is just sex, it such a pleasure.

She slowly raises her hips and finds my eyes. She holds the gaze when she tugs on her pencil skirt to shove it up legs . I love how self-assured she is tonight. How assertive. Maybe this balances out her dutifulness at work today. I find the zipper at the back and unzip it. Together we bundle her skirt over her hips. she is about to sit down again, when I stop her fondling her ass. Her sexy butt in white cotton panties. Thin panties. I can see a patch of dark and her swollen lips outlined. I Lick my lips. I do feel hungry, I guess. She notices and kisses me, as sweetly, as patiently, as openly as last time as I just knead her ass. Both om my thumbs find there way to the front of her panties and I caress the outline of her lips. The panties are definitely wet, she is. And swollen. and I slowly trace upwards. She takes in air sharply, throwing her head back from the kiss. I can watch. I don't quite make it to where she wants me, and she waits. As my thumbs move down again. I am so enjoying this. I move inwards only once quickly, and then trace again. Her upper body is erect, legs spread. She is still wearing her bra. I mover upwards again a little closer and her breath hitches again. She wants this bad. Than my palms are on her hip bones on her flat stomach, as her eyes open. She looks at me wildly. I know. I know what you want Dana. My hands travel upwards. To her breast I circle her nipples and give them my treatments she is almost rocking. Then my hands move to the back and unclasp. I take her bra off, stroke her arms. Her eyes are closed. I stroke her back and slowly touch my tongue to her right nipple. She sucks in air and moves her hips. Oh, Dana! If you could see yourself right now. As I move my hands down her body again. She sighs "hmh" when I reach my destination. At the crotch of her panties I pick up my slow teasing torture from moments ago . But Dana won't have it she takes my hands and directs them to her center and breathes in. I moan. This is so sexy. I have some power even though the cotton but I would have more without. Two fingers find their ways inside of her panties and now I am truly touching her. Exploring rather than giving her what she need. I nibble at her nipple and soothe it with my tongue. I kiss her neck one hand moves up on her back. She wants more. When my hands are both on her back I look for the space around us, and in one swift move lay her flat on the couch.

She has suspected that it would come to this, and smiles. We kiss. I link my hand through her panties and lose ,them not very elegantly but as quickly as I can manage. I then take her very nicely shaped strong thighs and move them around my hips. I begin to rise hoping I will be able to carry her to the bedroom. Not certain I can. She does not help. "Bed" I moan into her lips. She shakes her head "here, now!". Okay! I swiftly find her wetness again. I circle around her clit, and she shuts her eyes moaning, her head rolling on her shoulders a tiny bit, mimicking the movement of my fingers. than I stop and I shove to fingers into her. She yelps "Mh". I kiss her neck but move quickly downwards. It doesn't take much to simultaneously crawl out of the nothing I was wearing and down her body. When my mouth reaches the dark patch, she is already circling her hips, raising them. She wants me bad. Every now and then I pull my fingers in and out of her. But really tonight it will be all about my tongue. And my hunger for he. Her tenderness and her forcefulness. I kiss the place where her lips meet tenderly. Right above where she needs me, and she moans unashamed. She sighs my name. The most beautiful sound I have ever heard. I won't let her wait much longer. I slowly draw circles around clit. The moment my tongue touches her, half her body rises from the couch. And then her hands are in my hair. "Ohhh." She cannot hold still, as I circle and circle driving her wild. With the first flick she grabs my hair rather forcefully almost painfully. "Oh! hmh"" It was a surprise. She is now rocking into me, and tenderly runs her hands through my hair, trying not to grab or push too much. I am on my knees in front of her, when I suck her into my mouth. She get's really loud. I pump my fingers. as I move my head back and forth keeping the suction, Then she starts to come. He back leaves the couch, her head falls back, her muscles tense. and I can hear a steady mantra of "oh!oh!oh!oh!", as I suck her to her orgasm and down from it. Lapping then Kissing.

When her breathing returns to normal, she is still stroking my hair and I am still watching her. There is some sweat on her chest. her hair is all over the place, mine must be nest. Her cheeks are red. Her eyes are closed, and she looks as if she is still in the land of pleasure. I move upwards to her. Wiping my face without her seeing it. Then she opens her eyes. At first they are unfocused and then she finds mine. "mmh, Monica..". I love my name coming from her mouth, especially in situations like this. Especially when she breathes it. I touch the side of her face stroke it. I wonder how she feels about tasting herself on my lips. I slowly lean in. Her hands are on my arms. My eyes are open. Does she want to taste this, try this. I lean in very slowly holding her gaze. This kiss will be sweet. And it is. Despite her grabbing my head again. She is enjoying this. Her lips and mouth explore and are pliant. Her tongue touches mine and she sucks me in. She finds this sexy. She likes that I just went down on her and am kissing her now. I need to store that in my memory, it is probably burned into it. Her hands begin to move on my body. I am burning hot for her!

We are kissing, her hands have found my underwear and then… the phone rings. We both stop and turn, she groans in frustration and I mumble "shit" against her cheek. It must be Doggett. I have to get it. Of course she understands. I am not sure I do. I grab the phone "Hello?". "Monica, get Agent Scully and get here. You won't believe this. I am not sure how to explain it. The cavalry is on its way." I look over at Dana, she has heard every word. "We'll be there soon". I am standing in my underwear in my living room. Dana is getting up. We get dressed very quickly. each on our own. We steal glances at the other. Somehow this feels almost more intimate than everything else. Maybe it is because, there has normally been a door between us. I love to watch her button her shirt, maybe not as much as unbuttoning it. I love to watch her zip up the skirt. And I have to chuckle when she reaches for her shoes. Being distracted by her beauty and the intimacy I have done the best job I could dressing myself, making myself presentable. But I might have been somewhat unsuccessful as she still smoothes my hair out during the car ride.


	4. Visitation number 5 and sort of 6

**Visitation #5 & sort of #6**

 _4.45 pm_

 _J. Edgar Hoover building_

 _basement_

It's been a dry spell. Nothing X-files worthy, not even Y-files worthy has come our way in over a week. First it was nice to get a break. But then after all long over-due paperwork had been dealt with, it got boring. This is not how we imagined this work to be. Skinner told us to play it cool. My words. To use this as a moment to fall under the radar, a time during which we don't count as trouble, and instead earn some trust upstairs, or at least acceptance, that might later become useful. When we go on our next supernatural goose chase. John Doggett paraphrased this moment as a quiet before a storm that is sure to come in this line of work. And that might really be what it is. Or it might just be a dry spell after all.

Looking through old X-files and files considered too meaningless for these basement cabinets even by Agent Mulder has reminded me of what crazy phenomena might lie in wait for us as the second generation of X-files agents. Except for some cases the older ones are just boring and non-sense. Who knew. Quite frankly, I consider tem to be false reporting, stories about stories, or stories as cover-up stories for other stories, that could never be understood in the context of all the other reports, accounts, articles and whatever evidence we have filed here. Meaningless really. However, John and I have come up with an additional filing system, an attempt to place them and preserve them. A key word filing system that allows us to make connections or find old cases more easily when necessary. Exciting, right?. However, it is a way to gain some insights into the knowledge that others, mostly Mulder and Dana, have gained though experience, through working in this basement for years. But mostly it is a way to keep quiet down here. Filing as a way to occupy the mind, so that it doesn't go wandering.

It's been a dry spell in a totally different way too. In the last two weeks Dana has only shown up at my place once. Briefly. The definition of a quickie really. It was… nice, more than nice certainly, but over too soon. Almost surreal.

On the phone she told me about mid-term examinations that she had to supervise and about how this takes her mind off things, things she doesn't want to think about at the moment. My first thought was that now she doesn't need me anymore, the specific physical comfort that our encounters have given her before. and of course, naturally, I was happy that she was feeling better, even though mostly through distraction, but, maybe just maybe, somewhat sad too. But she was here, here on the phone with me and she did come by later. Around midnight. She only said "Hi" and "I should be working but I couldn't concentrate anymore," or soemthing along those lines. I was sleepy, had just woken up really, but excited to see her, more excited when she took off her jacket and then blouse. She was passionate that night, but accommodated to my slow mid-night mood. We had quick sex in the dark in my bedroom. Locked eyes with dark centers, quiet and slow movements despite the time frame. Immediately afterwards she left, but not without kissing me tenderly once more and saying "good night" and I fell asleep. Retrospectively the visit has gained a dream-like quality. Dana coming to me in the dark of my sleep, Dana coming in the dark of my dream.

On the phone she also told me she is frustrated, though a different kind of frustrated than me. She is frustrated with the students' papers she is correcting this week. Frustrated that they are always looking for the easiest answer. No creative thinking, no critical thinking whatsoever, no ideas, just go-by-the book no-problem problem-solving, she sees in their work. She said that looking back she considers herself to have been somewhat closed-minded during her Academy times, but that there is no way, no way, that here early papers were as boring and as characterless as all of these she has to read right now. Though she'd rather not go back to them now anyhow. I had to chuckle. She is being very frank and open and I enjoy that. Though I'm pretty sure it was meant as a joke. Despite its truth. And I like that too.

The nicest thing she said on the phone was that noticing, that there is really no reason to be especially hopeful about the so-called future of the FBI, she realized that she is so glad about the team now working on the X-files, she is glad that I am. She is thankful for Doggett's loyalty and rationality, but she really is glad I am there, with an open mind. I swallowed audibly. She said, that over time she really came to value an open and intuitive mind like mine. That sometimes this is exactly what one needs. This was as close to compliment or more like a compliment than anything I have ever heard her say. I was positively struck by it, muted even. I blushed through the phone, I'm sure. All I thought I could add at that moment were some stupid sentences about how quote boring unquote the work had become recently, about the potential quiet before the stupid storm, that might or might not come. Thankfully I did not say dry spell.

All I wanted to say, however, was how I missed her, how I hadn't seen her in too long a while, how she hadn't come by. And ask why. But I didn't. I couldn't, obviously. I think maybe she heard this anyways, because she came midnight soon after that.

When she kissed me (so sweetly) before I drifted, off my thought was: how I'd love to talk to her after, before and if it rocks her boat even during sex. How I'd like the Dana who is visiting me to be both the incredible beautiful woman I have sex with, and the Dana, my friend, who has just begun to open up to me. And now that I think about it, I really want her to be all, to be the Dana who is my colleague the brilliant MD, the no nonsense Special Agent, that everybody respects, and the many things I haven't really seen. The grieving mother, whose child I helped bring into the world, or better yet just Dana as a mother, and maybe someday the daughter and sister to those she loves, the frustrated teacher who worries about the future of federal investigation, and creative thinking generally, whom surely all the student's crush on, and Mulder's partner, who willingly went on this quest with him, gave up so much to fight the future, fearlessly, even though they might never be able to win this fight, find the truth that they seek so selflessly.

I guess filing does not really help my mind from wandering, as I have apparently been reading this file about what appears to be about bacterial infection in a Mexican-American border town for the eleventh time. Focus Monica! No more thinking about her. I shake my head.

John has not noticed or found my behavior particularly inappropriate, and I do know why: He finds it even harder than me to find keywords for these files. Very often he just stares at the reports for a very long time, not turning a single page. I imagine he wonders how to extract a couple of key terms from what he calls "mumbo jumbo", and "shared myth", that he is reading. He is struggling to wrap his mind around the supernatural aspects in the stories, around the fact that two intelligent and talented agents such as Mulder and Scully spent all this time on these cases. He told me so, in less words. I find it inspiring, or Romantic even, heroic, is I think what I said, and wonder who I envy more, him or her. Him! For sure.

I think John also struggles with putting down the key words, physically, once he has extracted them for himself,found what he thinks might fit, it is hard for him to put them down, because to him it must seem like he verifies them by spelling them out, as if he believed in what these stand for, as if it meant giving them his stamp of approval, even though we both know he can't. It was his idea to do this really. But a couple of times I actually had to walk over take the pen from him and write them down myself. "Bacteria with hallucinogenic properties you said?" "Shared dellusions and underground organisms?" He just nodded, but seemed grateful. We don't talk about this. We both understand.

As I look up from the Mexican American immigrant town file about two brothers and one woman, I say " This reads like a real soap opera, John! It's unbelievable." This earns me smile. "Why, Agent Reyes! Don't they all?" We both laugh. It is our shared secret. More seriously he says: "Monica, really, I don't think I can take this any longer. I have read much of this before, but somehow today it get's more frustrating every minute!". Frustrating, John? Hah, you have no idea! "Yeah? why?" "I don't know – I guess… I don't really see how they kept going." I wait for him to go on. I'm not sure where this is going, or maybe I am. "I know you find it romantic, and I do admire their work ethic, but to me this is more like a tragedy. They follow every case, every lunatic's sleepless dream, every folk tale that happens to fall on their desk!" That is new. "And where does it lead them? Here. Back here. And to all kinds of personal tragedies." I nod my understanding. William, "It seems like a Sisyphus job to me. Or some other Greek tragedy."

"It seems to me like you are having a mid-filing crisis, or end-of the week melt-down, John." This lightens the mood; he smiles and shakes his head. "John, maybe you should go home, call it a day!" "Call it a week," is all he says. I guess he agrees. He is looking around the heaps of files for his jacket. "I really can't see it as all in vain. Despite all, they have helped people, and that's what it's about. And I think that somehow it amounts to more. Just look around this office," I actually somewhat spread my arms to emphasize the sheer uncountability of these collected disorganized files, "all the information, the stories, the hints and clues, that they have collected…" Am I believing myself? Hints, Clues?! "It might in some unforeseeable way all come together one day. I really do believe that." We smirk and the the accidnetal turn ofphrase. "Maybe not by filing, but more intellectually or spiritually. Or something" I smile. "Or it might not, who knows. But it is really interesting. And it has formed the two of them. Mulder, Dana. See it as a journey, an odyssey maybe, rather than a job". I think about Dana, her giving birth, her grief, her talk about the necessity of an open mind. He shrugs. "And go!" He smiles while putting on his jacket. "See you Monday, Monica" "Yes. I'll stay just a little bit longer." "Okay but don't stay too long and into the "W" section for Werewolf, or you won't be able to sleep," is what he says when he exits the basement. I have to smile. And look around for the next heap to look through. I guess I have planned my Friday evening just now.

 _7.17 pm_

 _J. Edgar Hoover building_

 _basement_

It's getting late, too late to be here on a Friday evening, I think, sucking on a mars-bar I got out of a vending machine thirty minutes ago. I have kind of stopped looking for filing words and just got lost in the stories. Many of them are older then Dana's and also Mulder's time at the X-files, they read like folk tales and myth, Doggettis right about that, and documents from another time another world-view. But what I have really become interested in is their quest, their time in this office and their field work. I have been getting lost in the many files that involve Mulder and Scully. First, I was obviously interested in their first case together, potential abductions in Oregon, all evidence of it, obviously lost, but more of it to found in the bond that has formed between the two of them as very young very different agents forced together by something like chance, trusting each other immediately, despite the fact that Dana has been sent here in order to check on him. Obviously. Why she accepted this job comes to me intuitively, the excitement, Mulder's reputation, her scientific interest in everything on the border between the known und unknown natural world. Why she stayed, I will have to puzzle from all the other files, if there is anything more to be found than whatI already know. Am I looking for an answer to John's question, or am I looking for something else?

After these early indications of her investment, obviously I wanted to know more about Agent Mulder's motivation. I have been told and shown a lot when we were looking for him, what now seems like a very long time ago, and everybody who knew him and John have somewhat painted a clear picture. But re-reading the files on his sister, on other life-altering events, such as the death of his father, his own walk's on the edge between life and death, is a moving experience. Agent Mulder, so it seems has struggled, all this time, not only to find the truth, and ideally to prove it, but he hast struggled with finding someone to trust, Dana being the only one always by his side. I wonder if he was glad to have her or worried about the times that they disagreed. I wonder if she was frustrated when their trust was tested, or he didn't have faith in her. I am only through about a quarter of their files and I am already humbled by the complexity of their relationship.

I must admit, that if I didn't have huge crush on her before, I certainly would have one know. Sometimes it is in the short sentences, in which Mulder documents what she had been doing or lived through – many, many attacks!, for one - how she obviously held her ground, also, all the time, and never wavered. Kept going. Loyally. And then there is ne sharpness of her mind, that comesthrough in what she writes. I even read some autopsies. But her astutue observations are really everywhere. How can one not fall in love with her? Mulder must have! Was, for sure. Is probably. At least, the evening has made me certain of that. And I am, I think .Crushing hard. Sometimes it's in her reports in the peculiarity of her point of view, in the way she sees the world, in her faith in science and order, in her willingness to go well beyond what we are required to do, in her determinism, and mostly in her belief in right and wrong. It's at its best when she is describing this or that crime in simple but differentiated words. Somehow it makes me admire her more. Once or twice I immediately thought about her comment on the phone, and whether or not she would like to read what she wrote when she was younger, less open-minded, maybe but strong-minded, intelligent and full of character.

Sometimes I side with Mulder on their different accounts. I believe so to say the insanity of the story/of the witness account. And the truth is somewhere between the lines or hidden in the print. This evening has become so interesting. Mulder somehow trusts what he sees and hears, what others believe, and in everything imaginable, every monster, every myth. I wonder if he is insane. And: I see where he is coming from. Sometimes when I read her reports, I wonder what she left out. The wonder at the world, her fear, her feeling of loss and grief ,and maybe love for that lunatic. I've been smiling for a while. It's past 8.

Sometimes it feels a little bit like spying, having these limited but yet profound insights into their former lives. But it's research. I do need to know these things. For more than one reason. I need to be able to make the necessary connections, either me or John, when both of them are not here, and I need to know what may lie ahead of us, what kind of journey. What will keeps us here. Except for her.

As I sit on the floor and ponder my own motivations in addition to Mulder's and Dana's. I hear someone clearing their throat. It's Dana. Her head is nudged through the crack of the half open basement door and she is smiling, and looking around. "You know John told me you are still working, but I had no idea that it has become your job to turn a completely fine office into a total mess!" I grin. It's playful Dana, who found me here. "Dana! What are you doing here!" "I believe, I just asked you the same thing. Or at least I was attempting to." She smiles again. I stand up the mars bar wrapper falls to the floor. Busted. "Well, Dana can't you see? I am organizing".

"Okay. It looks like you could need some help." She walks over to me, to my spot in the mess. She slowly bends her knees crouching down, arranging her clothes so they don't rise up. Than she sits on her legs. She is preparing to stay at least for a while so I grab a couple of files from the floor and hand them to her. She takes them at once and settles in more. I have to smile.

But then I get more serious. I feel I need toexplain myself here: "John and I have come up with an idea for an extended filing system." She looks at the file, scanning the key words attached to it and then at me. "Sewage, Insectoid, parasite, bite marks". "You know that the X-files have been arranged by year, and partly case number, listing names and places. And I guess that works very well as a system if you know what to look for, the case, the specifics, remember it even. But John and I, we need a little bit more to make the necessary connections. Compared to other files murder/ drug related crime/ arson /ritual abuse, the X-files are very varied in indicating factors such as form of injury or even form of attack, if attack…" She is already nodding: "I see". She takes off her tailored blazer, folds it and lets it fall onto the desk we are kneeling in front of. I watch her movements. "So we came up with the idea of a key word index for identifiable properties that might link with future cases." She lowers her gaze to the now open file. "We attach them to the front of the file and will later feed it into a database." "Sewage, insectoid, parasite, bite marks" she recounts from memory and nods. I smile: "Exactly"

She is actually staying to help, to talk to me about the files. She has had a couple of exhausting work days or weeks, examinations, papers, more than enough paper going through her hands, She told me so herself. And now she chooses to be here with me. In her former basement office. On a Friday night. Amazing. "I would add 'terrestrial' to parasite though" she ? "Hm?" Why? "For identification. You know we have seen many, many… too many parasites," she explains, "and not all of them have been from this world exactly, depending on definition of course!" There is some humor in her voice. I just stare at her. She goes on smiling, eyes glued to the page: "I myself have been infested with one. Extraterrestrial one, fortunately, I wouldn't want the sewage one, or the ice worm either, and not fully grown. Probably because being frozen slows its growth down." My eyes are big as saucers. "Really?" "Well, if you believe Mulder's account." We share a smile and she tells me the inconceivable story of being stung by a bee, picked up by what appearsed to be an ambulance that attempted to treat her for what appeared to be an anaphylactic shock, just to wake up naked and cold, literally freezing, potentially, in an icy underground structure in Antarctica. And as Mulder claims she only narrowly escaped becoming the surrogate mother to a fully-grown alien monster, and just missed a flying UFO, her former prison, as it rose from the ice. All she saw, she says, was a very big hole and lots and lots of white. She smiles through all of it, reminiscing. And I'm not sure if I should believe Mulder. Or her even. Reading about their supernatural adventures, missed chances and close calls, has been rather interesting, but hearing about it from her is way more entertaining. And insightful.

We spend the next hour or so orgnaizing files and talking, or rather she talks, tolls me about different cases, and I listen. To: a vampire town/ trailer park, other biting things, the time she had to stay in a trailer amongst circus folk as a a dead inbred Siamese twin attacked people, a raw fish eating suspect covered in tattoos, a liver-eating some-centuries old man. She even tells me she once had been very close to actually seeing death, the person not the philosophical entity, mind you, but when I ask her about it, about an explanation, and who or what that Mr. Death is, she tells me it is a story for another evening, another time.

She tells me that time is the operative word that time has often been the issue or timing, says that many of the monsters or mysteries have a way of living on a different calendar, she noticed, than we do, and this is part of the problem, they turn up once, then go into hiding for decades or millennia, myths have once been true and then forgotten, and then they show up again, just to be, or so it seems, almost found, almost recorded, almost explained, but will never really. And that that is mostly because of timing. Most of it is. She looks serious and holds my gaze. Then she switches gear and asks me if I have ever lost time, or knew one could. You do, she says when you run into extraterrestrial energy fields, literally, or drive into it, that she did on her first case in Oregon, with a young and rebellious Fox Mulder, who didn't know if he should trust her. She tells me it's common to most abductions. But also happens to other people, non-abductees. You find this everywhere really. Hundreds of files at least. She says she has been wondering about this eversince her first case. But then again she is so sure, that she is losing time too often, mostly, when she is running late. I smile. Or when time matters, and it nearly always does. She tells me, that on the other hand sometimes it feels like there is not a second that she's lost. That all lost time remains somewhere even when you forget.

We have fallen in such a comfortable, sometimes casual sometimes serious, talk while filing that I tell her a little bit about cases in New Orleans, colleagues, partners, in the ritual abuse division especially, which has given me a bad reputation and an open mind. Except for this, mostly I listen.

 _8.35 pm_

 _J. Edgar Hoover building_

 _basement_

Eventually we both took off our shoes and she rolled up her sleeves. She walks the office, goes through the motions of filing and reading, writing and sorting, building file towers, very naturally. As if she had done this a couple of times, as if this is her job not mine. I admire her for it. Once she turned to me and it was not for what she said that I was shocked ("I worked many of these cases, but somehow I never noticed just how many files they are"), but how she looked: Simple black pants, white button-up blouse with rolled up sleeves, bare-feet, tiny, arms above her head arranging her hair into a ponytail, make-up mostly gone and freckles shining through. She looks so beautiful, so at home and at ease, that all I could do was just stare at her. She noticed. And blushed.

"Are you hungry?". I answer awkwardly. I smile as a means of explanation."I know of a vending machine on the first floor." She nods understanding, "where?" "The visitor's lounge, between bathroom and public phone." "Oh," she smiles back. " My treat. And it has all the best brands too." Laughter. "That would be wonderful, Monica. And please check the machine for red wine." I put on my shoes, grab some money from my leather jacket and head up. I feel energetic, gleeful, almost giddy.

And this is the moment when I realize I am, or rather, have been falling in love with her. That I want to know everything about this amazing woman. This amazing woman that has chosen to spend her evening-off, not one of many, doing something rather boring and very paper-heavy with me. Exchanged a normal dinner, for a vending machine treat. Is helping me, instead of sitting in a bathtub, or some other way of relaxation she enjoys. Naked Scully in water, put a pin in that. I need to buy one of every kind, at least, all the sweets that I can find. And gum, and coca cola, and root beer for wine. I should bring her the whole machine.

When I return, I hear her sigh and see her scribble. "Killer cats" is all she says when she notices me, and lets the file drop on the finished done-with pile. I put down a huge pile of candy and other treasures, I retrieved for her. And start to rearrange several file towers so we can sit down on the floor together, picknick style. "Oh, root beer" is what she notices. "Yeah and everything else you can imagine," I say "from a vending machine, at least to survive." We sit down next to one another and she thanks me "for dinner". She grabs the the granola bar first, of course, and says she wants to start with something healthy. Fruits and veggies before dessert." She asks me what I eat on stake-outs, and except for a somewhat askew dinner table topic it feels like a first date. I enjoy this evening so much, the jokes, stories, and her closeness. We share chips and some laughs, and then we are back to reading. Though we keep on sitting next to each other. And I have started to seriously crave her touch. Then I come across a file that literally has her name on it. I touch her thigh and say "Oh Dana thisisabot you."

She stops in her tracks. "Which one is it?". Wild stare. "My abduction? Emily?" I look at the listing of places next and read aloud to her "Philadelphia". She immediately snaps it from me. "You don't have to read that". "I'd beg to differ. That is what we are here for. Reading and Filing, remember?"She is serious. I can see that. She actually stands up, and I do too. What is up? What did she do? I am still smiling, whatever it is, it can't be as bad as she makes it out to be. "Just let me do the key words, it's really not that interesting," she tries. I argue: "that's not what it appears like at all. My interest in it has just peaked." She is blushing, "really it's fine, let me." She looks ten years younger at least. And then I realize this is all over her face. And I'm not sure I should push her. So I sit down again. "Fine. I can just read it on Monday, that's what the organizing is for, after all. To make them more accessible." I am pushing her. Too much. She hesitates for a moment. And then she sits down next to me. "Okay. Then let me give you the keywords." I'm so curious.

"Let's see…" she breathes. "Philadelphia…Private Trip. Disagreement! A man…. A Date." My eyebrows shoot up. "Drinking". Of course. "Ouroboros. Tattooed." Her tattoo! "One-night stand." Oh-oh. She holds my gaze for a second. Still blushing. "Misogynist talking tattoo..." What? "Hallucinations. Chemically Induced!" I see. "Attack. Safed." Pause. "Regret." And then "A crisis of trust." She is waiting for me to say something. When I don't she hands me the file without another word.

I read it carefully, knowing that every word has something to do with her, with what has happened to her, but also somehow with what she thinks of herself. Otherwise she wouldn't have made such a big deal out of it. I mean we have all gotten drunk once or twice, and done something we regret. We have all had a one-night stand in our life. Or at least I have. A couple. Just a few. I don't have a tattoo, but plenty of people do. Many drunk. Few talk to them… But still. Somehow there is more to it. She has stopped reading files and just watches me read. This is really serious. For some reason. There are some interesting details to it, the ink, the motif, but really I am not sure what she thinks she is showing me here. Does she think I'll see it as betrayal? and of whom? Of what? I can certainly understand that Mulder must have felt bad, even jealous, I do, and he must have been in love. But that is all I think about this. As I have already pondered the symbolism of the snake on her lower back from time to time. It make her seem more dangerous than her pantsuits do, but I have already seen her power, her anger, and her passion. Her wild side even, maybe. All of this is not that surprising to me. I do see how Mulder might be upset though, and I tell her so.

She is surprised. "Yes I guess you could call it that". "Jealous, maybe even," I add, as interpretation. It dawns on her. "Yes, maybe, somewhat." What I really want to ask her is if they had been a couple then, together, sleeping together, were they a thing. But of course I can't jut come right out and ask her that. "You were partners then," I try. "Yes, we were". This is not going to be easy. "More than partners" I add.

"Is this a question or a key word," she asks me, suddenly very serious. "It's a question," I say quietly, "I guess I should have asked before." She becomes less serious, there is some mildness showing up in her eyes. "We have been more than partners for a very long time." I swallow. This is not a question that I should ever ask. "Friends, of course…" – Of course! - "perfect opposites for sure, soulmates, maybe, in a very particular way." I shouldn't have asked. Not today. "Life partners, in almost all the senses of the world, but one, never romantic, never together and we never will." Thank God! "Why not?". "Good question," she says, "maybe because we are so much more." Okay "Mulder called me his touchstone once, and I now exactly what he means. I hold him in this world, while he looks for truth. And he clallenges me in ways I have never been challenges. And we have been through a lot. In a way we are, no used to, be each other's everything, each other's life. But it was, and still is, all about the work, that was, no is, more than just work, more significant than us, bigger than us. And this is why I guess." Wow! "Though we have crossed a line a couple of times. It was mostly for comfort, or because it was, it used to be just us." She is holding my gaze. I hold hers. She is telling me something."In this big thing, a quest. A conspiracy. And we needed to be there for each other. As friends. Anchoring each other. This it what it was and is about." It's all good to know, to understand, but somehow all of it stings. Jut a little bit. Too much. The corners of her mouth turn up. "And also, Mulder would drive me crazy, he does, all the time…" We laugh.

But the tension that we built does not leave the room. It stays between us, makes me pensive. I put the file on the done-with heap without labeling it. She watches me and furrows her brows confused. I say: "No need to label it. And I will remember anyway." She smiles thankfully.

 _9.19 pm_

 _J. Edgar Hoover building_

 _basement_

"And what happened then?" I ask. In the middle of a super suspenseful Frankenstein-like story about a monster-not-monster named the Great Mutato, who apparently impregnated a lot of women in a rural town. While listening to Cher songs nonetheless. I am a child at a campfire listening to ghost stories. And she is the very attractive campcounselor trying to get a rise out of me. Then suddenly she says. "And then… Nessie showed up and swallowed us all a whole." "What?" She puts the file away. "Then: Nothing really. The man turned out to be a monster, and the monster a really nice man." She is putting on her shoes. "What do you mean.?" "Really just that, Monica!" She is done for today. "The mop calmed down, and no one was really all too mad. One of the few cases we solved, actually." "That's it?". I want to hear more. "That's it, Monica!" She hands me my jacket. "Are you sending me home?" She smiles slowly, languidly, shyly. "Actually I was hoping of bringing you home." I hurry to my boots. "It's about time", I say and she agrees. Leading me through the door, she switches the light off. "We took him to a Cher concert that night…"


End file.
